


Three Things Jyn Erso Didn't Say and One Thing She Did

by damaskrose



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Apologies, Canon Compliant, Gen, Parent Death, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:14:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damaskrose/pseuds/damaskrose
Summary: Jyn Erso has a lot of regrets. During one quiet moment in an elevator, she has a chance to make sure she doesn't pile on another one.





	Three Things Jyn Erso Didn't Say and One Thing She Did

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I wrote this back in 2016 when Rogue One first came out, but never posted it. Anyway, Jyn Erso is a character I have a lot of complex feelings about–I don't hate her like some people do, and I think she has reasons for being the way she is, but I do think the film often wavered in her characterization as a result of trying to balance a lot in one movie. I have always wished there was a quiet moment where she was allowed to reflect on her past and all the people she's lost–and maybe some of the things she's wanted to say to them. I also thought that her relationship with Cassian needed a little more development between the stages of "antagonistic" and "loyally dying together." So I wrote this.  
> Also, I don't actually know what Cassian's home planet is like, since I wrote this right after the movie when there wasn't a ton of info available. Fest in this is pretty much my invention.

i.

_ Don't go. _

She is eight years old and knows it wouldn't have changed anything, wouldn't have stopped what her mother did, but she can feel the words curled on her tongue, ready to spring to life. She swallows them back, but follows her mother anyway. The sky is steely and the wet grass whips back and forth, slapping her. Moisture drips down her neck. She crouches still as stone and watches, breath frozen in her lungs.

The blaster fire shatters the cold Lah’mu air into a rain of sharp-edged shards, and shatters Jyn's world, too, as she sees her mother's body slump to the grass.

Jyn knows what to do, even though all she wants to do is run to her mother, shake her, beg her to open her eyes.

As she runs, the kyber crystal beats a relentless rhythm against her chest.

_ Don't go don't go don't go don't go. _

Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything. But that doesn't mean she doesn't wake, night after night, with the words on her lips, dreaming of a world that is Lyra-and-Jyn, not just Jyn.

 

ii.

_ I understand. _

She understands, after a while, why Saw left her in that bunker with only a blaster and a knife for company, a battle raging outside.

Maybe she doesn't agree, but no one ever said understanding was ever the same as agreement. And forgiveness doesn't mean approval. Forgiveness is just pulling the knife out of your side so you can staunch the wound.

After they leave Jedha, her conversation with Saw echoes again and again in her ears, mixing with the memory of the roar of the sand, the rumble of the ship under her cheek from where she leans against it. She can hear Chirrut and Baze talking quietly in the background, but their words wash over her like ocean waves.

Saw was never really like her father-he made it clear he wasn't going to act like one, and she made it clear she didn't want one-but who says that's a bad thing? Lately, fathers just seem to bring trouble. He was Saw, and she never thanked him for that, really. Never realized how harsh her last meeting with him was, until it was too late.

Jyn doesn't know if she believes in the Force, but she hopes he's found peace.

She shifts her position from where she's tucked into a seat, doing her best to feign sleep, but the words she should have said rattle around in her head over and over and over.

 

iii.

_ I was wrong. _

She doesn't know who she would say this to, exactly. The entire population of the Empire-ruled universe? Cassian Andor? Her father?

_ I was wrong _ , for all those years she kept her head down when it mattered most just to save her own skin.

_ I was wrong _ , for realizing too late that if you don't tear down an imperial flag, you're part of the reason it stays flying.

She doesn't know who she'd say that to, but maybe that's for the best. This isn't something that can be set right with words, only actions. If even then.

 

I.

The elevator is quiet except for the quiet hum of machinery and their own harsh breaths, so loud in the tiny space. Outside is probably chaos–shouts and blaster fire puncturing the air, a fog of smoke and white sand kicked up by frantically running feet, blood and spilled oil churning in the once-crystal water–but the elevator is a little pocket of calm, quiet wrapped in shining steel walls and metal cables.

Also probably her only chance to say something. If they succeed, the next few hours will be filled with escapes and fights, near-misses and information transmissions. If they don't succeed? Well. Definitely a last chance.

But still, she can't make herself speak. Firefights? Sure! Meaningful social interactions? Not her thing.

Jyn wraps one gloved hand around the metal railing, squeezes until she feels blood drain from her knuckles under the leather.

Cassian is close enough she could reach out and touch him-seriously, how are stormtroopers supposed to fit in here?-and every line of his body is taunt with pain he's trying not to give into. She knows the look. Blasted Empire and their blasted libraries.

"I'm sorry," she says, all in a rush before she can back out.

It takes Cassian a moment to respond. "Sorry for what, Jyn Erso?"

The way he says her full name makes this even more of a Moment than it had been before.

"For calling you a stormtrooper. Back on Eadu." She can feel herself about to ramble, and bites down on her tongue before she can start. Jyn Erso should not be a rambling kind of person. Or at least the Jyn Erso she's made herself into doesn't.

Except he doesn't say anything for a second, and then she-blast it-does start to ramble. "Obviously you, um, don't have to accept my apology or anything, and I recognize that my opinion of you is not exactly the most important thing right now. But. I would at least like you to know that I don't think that, because from what I've seen you are nothing like them."

Again, Cassian is silent for a moment. The fluorescent-lit hallways they flash past stripe his face in shadow. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. She starts to wonder if she should have stayed quiet after all. Her regret is not really priority right now, after all. But she's choking on all the things she's never said, and she can't stand to have one more.

"What do you think I am like, Jyn Erso?" Cassian asks. His voice is the loudest thing in the elevator, and yet so quiet at the same time.

"A man who has done some bad things for a good cause. A man who hopes. A brave man." She stops, unsure if she's gone to far.

Cassian lets out a long breath, shaky with pain and maybe something else. "I think it will be worth it, in the end. If we succeed."

"I think so, too," Jyn says. In that moment, they're not exactly friends. But comrades, maybe.

Perhaps they could be friends, if they had met in another time, another place.

"My home planet," Cassian continues. "Fest. It was a lot like this one. Tiny islands, golden sand, blue, blue ocean as far as the eye could see. It's like I've come full circle." He stops, like that's all he has to say.

It's not really forgiveness, but it might be close. In the darkness, Jyn lets herself hope a little that they'll make it.

"Do you think we'll make it?" she asks, after it’s clear he's not going to say more. The neon light in the corner counting down floors shows they're almost at the ground.

"As long as they got the transmission, we don't matter. The plans are the most important." He says it so simply. No false hope. "Do you think we will?"

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open with a hiss, letting in all the shouts and the distant explosions, the sand flung in the air and the smell of smoke. Scarif, chaotic war zone and paradise, spreads out before her.

"Probably not," she says. "But it's bigger than us. Always has been." There's no point in pretending they'll all make it out. They all knew it could end like this. The most she can hope is that some others might survive. Cassian doesn't say anything, but his gaze meets hers and she knows he's thinking the same thing. "Come on, Cassian. I can help you walk." He slings an arm around her shoulder again and they prepare to hobble out of the elevator.

"But, you know, as a wise man once told me," Jyn continues, "Rebellions are built on hope. There's always a chance."

And, together, they step out of the elevator.


End file.
